The Truth
by VBUser
Summary: I am the darkness of the wastelands. Of the few thousands living after the cataclysm, I alone know the Truth. **4th up, RR if you'd please**
1. Night 1

**All characters and places created by Interplay are copyrighted by Interplay and used without permission. I did not create everything of this story, I am merely using it as a base to write from. Don't sue me, I'm poor anyway.**

I am the darkness of the wastelands. No one knows my name. No one remembers my face. Of the few thousands living after the cataclysm, I alone know the Truth.

And no one will get it out of me.

The moon shone. A lone man walked. Sand crunched beneath his boots. The cold wind made its efforts to slow his pace, pushing against his leather jacket. One hand rested on a holstered Desert Eagle. The other swung Brahmin-hide pack. He had no destination but the wastes.

As he walked past a lone bush, a second set of footsteps joined in his crushing of sand. They grizzled man didn't bother to turn his head. The second was silent. A long, black coat flowed about his feet, rustling in the wind. His face was hidden under unkempt raven hair. The darkness of an empty night seemed especially deep near this mystery. They kept walking onward.

The desert man stopped and turned. They had been walking for hours. The dark man stopped his striding and faced him.

"You the one I was sent to meet?" the desert man said. He could almost see a glint of eyes behind the thick black hair obscuring the face in front of him.

The dark head nodded. "I am, ranger." There was an inescapably long pause. "You should have my papers, then?"

The New California Ranger's face suddenly showed all of the suspicions and mistrusts that he had held since he first heard of his assignment. This dark mystery of a man did nothing to subdue his fear. "Am I sure we can trust somebody like you?"

The dark man suddenly drew himself up. "That is no matter!" The ranger could see his eyes flashing behind the veil of dark hair. "Your leaders should consider what I am giving you to be most important!" He shrunk down again into himself. "Now, give me what I want, and you shall not go back empty handed."

The grizzled ranger almost was ready to run now. This man of darkness was not one his honorable associates should be dealing with. Still, he did not move. The dark eyes must have been intently studying him, even though they were hidden from sight. There was surely no good to come of this deal. But the founders had ordered.

The ranger reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper. "Here. An explicit pass to get into NCR, any time, any reason." The dark man took it. The paper was tucked into this coat before the ranger could see it happen. "Now. What am I bringing back?"

The dark man didn't move for many very tense moments. The ranger silently cringed. He did not put murder past this mystery of a wanderer. More minutes passed in silence.

The dark man threw his head back and bellowed. He laughed aloud for an entire minute before lowering his head. He still chuckled as he held out a sleeve-covered hand. It held a folded packet of paper. The ranger reached for it, took it in his hand, and tired to bring it to himself. The dark man would not let go. They both held it. More anxious moments passed.

The dark man laughed again. "Let your fears pass over you, old man. There are worse things in the wastes than mysterious strangers." He let go, and backed away. The darkness of the night enveloped him. The moon had gone beyond the horizon and the inky blackness accepted its own. The ranger shivered, and turned back towards home.

I watch from behind one of the low dunes that cover the vast desert of the world, my black coat making me just another lump of sand. That fool of a ranger still walks towards a dark horizon that hides the bustling capitol city of a newly rising empire. A city that now knows of me. Rumor and legend. My most potent tools. Darkness. My most precious ally. Tomorrow night, the darkness will come again. Then, I will rise again out of the wastes to complete another mission. Another time when the holder of the Truth must correct the wrongs.

This sheet of paper that he gave me. Useless. I don't need a gate guard to admit me past any wall. No, the only thing I got out of this deal was my rumor passing before me. NCR knows of me. They don't know of but the suspicions of an old man. Soon, the shade shall pass into their midst.

Who am I? I am the dream you can't recall. I am the shadow you can't believe. I am the hope you can't trust. I am the holder of the Truth. I am the darkness of the wasteland.

And tomorrow night, I will rise again.


	2. Night 2

The sun, shining high in the sky, is a pure symbol of shining blamelessness. The sun, moving its reddening mass below the darkening horizon, is both beautiful and promising of a new sunrise in a few hours. The sun, hidden from all eyes, blocked off from providing its comforting warmth, is not seen at night. In its place falls the darkness, the bane of watchfulness, a time to be hidden and secure. The darkness is the element of secrecy. The darkness is the root of all wrongdoing. The darkness, sun retreating, always comes.

The night was deep. The moon had not yet risen. A few lamps glowed with amazing electric power. None of their light touched this stretch of wall. A watchful guard might have seen a dark hump slowly rise over the wall then lowering itself to the ground, gracefully bridging the defenses of the NCR. No guard was that watchful. None believed the rumors of an evilly dark man with designs for their city. Life had been quiet lately. Peace does nothing to sharpen awareness. Awareness is the only defense against the expert silent death.

There is no rest for those with duty to undertake. I am the shadow that you see move, but is silent at a second glace. I am the shadow that you do not trust. I am the shadow who is your undoing. There are many shadows in NCR tonight.

Windows, even old and ones, do not creek when carefully opened. A shadow slipped into the house, its black coat rustling only slightly. Everything was quiet, not even the soundest sleeper was snoring on this night. Room by room, shadows by shadows, light step by light step, the darkness moved through darkness into the master bedroom. Alone on an old bed lay an aged man under a worn blanket. The dark man slipped into the room and stood out of sight in a corner, hidden by shadow. He stood and waited. His breathing soon matched the rhythm of the old man. The moon slowly rose over the horizon. Soon, light crept into the high window. A circle of silver moonlight began to creep across the floor. It lent enough light to see the dark man step out of his shadow. Passing the moon's circle, light flashed off a silver blade barely showing out of his long sleeve. The man crossed the room to the old man.

A harsh noise from the moonlit gloom awakened the old man, whose first waking moment was with a knife pressed to his throat. He opened his mouth to cry out, but an increased pressure at his neck shut his mouth quickly. By the light of the moon, the old rancher could barely see a dark shape bending over his bed. He could not see a face, only shocks of unkempt hair. A voice, cold as steel, came out of the darkness. 

"Hold, old man. I'm here to kill you." Westin could almost see a sneer behind the mask of long hair. "Very powerful people have hired me. They want you dead, old man. Do you know why?" The dark figure paused in his nearly silent, one-sided discussion. "Because you're a stubborn old coot. You seem to make enemies in your choices, no matter how good they may seem." The dark head turned down, and said in a mockingly caring voice, "Don't you know to be more careful?"

Suddenly, the knife was lifted, disappearing into the black sleeve. The dark figure stood straight up. He chuckled softly. "You need to find more friends, old man. Life is too...costly to waste on your work alone. It's a part of the Truth." The darkness spun around, his coat swirled about his ankles. "Remember, old man," he said over his shoulder, "the sun will bake your bones, but the darkness was more forgiving tonight." Before Westin could blink, the dark mystery had dissolved back into the shadows and was gone.

The force-field guard was silently sitting at her post. It was a long night. The moon never gave enough light--and she was a morning person. The night always frightened her. Suddenly, she heard a noise behind her. Quickly jumping up and turning, the police guard looked around wildly, swinging her rifle. Nothing. She looked down, and jumped. Only a piece of paper on the ground. She picked it up, reading to herself as she rose back to her position. "Please admit this individual unconditionally into the city, by order of the Council on behalf of the New California Rangers." It was signed by the eight council members.

I am the night that does not end. I am the end that brings the night. There is no denying the Truth. The message must go to the wastes. And the wastes must accept it. There is nothing else that can matter.


	3. Night 3

There is a little bar in the middle of a big little city. It's not a very presumptuous bar, neither is it ever empty. It's a good place to get lost in your troubles and buried further in your troubles. It's also a great place to meet many interesting people.

"Hey there, kid. Know who I am? Not a chance, right? That's the likely choice. Not many people know me. I'm Razor, a Scav. Many people've called me a [scoff] thief. Most people don't like to spend much time around a windbag like me. [Sigh] There's not much chance you're gonna be any different either. Oh well. Life's rough, no? While we're here, you wanna buy a wrinkled old hag a round? Just a beer, thanks, none of that wrench-gut-Rot-Gut for me. What are you doing in this part of the Waste? Not much I'd bet. Oh. Well, a bar's as good as place as any to lay low. Just don't get too drunk. Hah. Not very likely here. I'd bet ol' Tom buys more water than he does booze. But that's the way it runs, eh? Bottoms up!

"My story? You gonna be in here for long enough? I've come a long way. No way I'm gonna go about telling you my age, don't even ask. But, you could say that I'm older than this here town. By how long I've been around, I'm older than...well, I'm older than...ok, I'm older than a lot of stuff. But you wanted my story. I came from down south. Way down south. Further down south than you could have walked in your entire life. I'm tellin' you, it's way down there. Heh, you might not believe me, but I was a leader down there. I had a bunch of people who were just struggling to get along, and they needed someone to help them out. When I ambled into their neighborhood, I was just a young little girlie. Though I was smart, didn't I. Yeah, just a little girl, fallin' in love, trying to help the world. Yeah, just a little young girl. But, hey, we were all kids once, weren't we? You should know that. Hey, buy me another drink; I'm just getting to the exciting part.

"Ahhh, that hits the spot. Right, now, I was in this town. City of Angels, they called it. Dead angles. You ever hear of the Boneyard? No? Didn't think so. Well, that's were I was. And, I can tell you, the people I was with, we were oppressed. Ha. Oppressed. Just like the rest of the festering peoples of the Wastes. But, we all there thought we had it bad, with a roof over our head, and danger only when we went looking for it. Call that oppression to some of the people I've seen, and you'll get beat up for your jacket and however many stims you're carrying. Hell, they'll beat you up anyway, even if you're oppressed too and don't have any stims. Hey, did you notice my jacket? Nice, isn't it? Genuine leather.

"But, anyway, my little group was oppressed (so we said). And it ended up that they liked me, or I was real good at surviving, or something like that, and all these people made me their leader. The little girl that I was, I ended up screwing things up, and got us more oppressed. Heh, like it mattered. About a year after I got to be the leader of this pathetic bunch, some action-package came in with a big ol' gun and cleaned up out little corner of this sucky world. We moved into the town, got the run of the place. Never did find out who it was that cleaned out the rabble of that place. He did leave the reddish-colored stains for us to scrub up, though. But that doesn't matter much. We got our little city, and I got to come out on top. You see, these people trusted me to lead them. I did that. Course, it's a different matter to have lead them well. [Sigh] That's the problem with doing stuff. It's hard. Hard, hard, hard."

Razor stopped to drain her bottle. She was showing the classic signs of drunkenness. Slurring, not exactly balancing, a little bit talkative. Actually, a lot bit more talkative. Quite loose-lipped, in fact. Her loudness makes you begin to wonder if this was ever going to get over with cleanly. A drunkenly loud old woman raving about her past is not the best way to keep attention away from yourself. Just hunker down, and hope the people in here are used to her and won't look over.

"Yup. It's hard. So hard, you end up messing up, you know, just every once in a while. You've messed up, sometimes, right? Oh, of course you have. That's the joy of life. Messing up and getting beat down over it. Well, I can tell you, not many people in the god-forsaken wastes are ever interested in just a little forgiveness. Nope never. All I did was botch up one lousy trading deal. It was a sorta big one, but you know how it is! No biggie. But, like it or not, they kicked little Razor out. This other guy, though he could do better leading a town than a woman. Heh. I would've kicked his ass good, if the others didn't like him so much. But that's that, and I left. I'd bet their little town went down the drain in half a year. Not much chance they had without me, the little girl (I wasn't so little then, startin' to get older and much more [hic] mature). Yes, the little girl who could have saved them, but they kicked her out. Wanna know what I did next? Huh? Where did I go? Buy me another beer, will ya? All this talking, you know?

"Thanks, there. That's good, cools the throat, and burns the gut. Keeps you warm on a cold night. Girl's best friend, you know? But I was out of there, so fast, you know? Didn't wanna stick around, those rotting sons of whores deserve what they got, [hic] whatever they got. But me, no, I got out of there and went into the Wastes. Not much left down south, so I went up. Up, yeah, I like the sound of that. Up, to the north, where there's more happiness to go around. Load of crap. There ain't no happiness in these Wastes. Plenty of lyin', cheatin', killin', stealin', and more killin'. That's the way, right it is. And I knew how to survive. I knew the way. That's why I'm a Scav, see? See, I survived. Found a nice little place, plenty of stuff to scrounge up. Plenty of people who wouldn't risk their own necks to get it. I had plenty to do. 

"Hell, I was even living the high life once. Everyone wanted someone who would risk it all. For a price, you see. [Hic] Simple math, wouldn't you say? But, once you get comfortable in, ah hell, anything, that's when things start going wrong. Jealousy. Competition. This tough old Scav might look weak, but in my day, I was something else. I can tell you, all the Collectors needed my services, all the other Scavs wanted to be me, and all the men wanted me. Joys of success, right? Make all your friends hate you; bask in the glory of being better then them? No. Hate is a powerful force. Hate is why I'm here now. You got that right. They forced me out, the other Scavs. [Sigh] I was a wanderer again. There wasn't much else for me but to go somewhere else. Did I mention I had a kid? Yeah, really, long time ago. Little boy. Kinda strange."

While this information pricks your ears, it still is nothing new to your Waste-hardened experience. Strange children? Yeah, seen that. A few quick glances around show a few people who might be quickly glancing away from you. You pull your collar up, and slump even further into the chair, hoping that no one has been informed of your face yet. You wish Razor wasn't so loud.

"Little kid, yeah. Called him Marky. Fine little guy. Made me happy, for a while. Cute, too, [hic] or did I say that already? Fine little guy, indeed. But, he sure did turn out strange. I gave him a knife when he was four. Had to. We lived in the Wastes, and we both could be robbed, or worse, any day. Thing was, the kid took a real liking to the dull little blade. Frankly strange, how much he treasured that knife. And I don't know when he ever practiced, never saw him, but we were attacked once by this crazed raider, and the boy carved him up. Barely knee-high, and he practically carved out the giant's heart. Heh, after that, I gave him my good blade. Not many people messed with him after I told 'em stories about his knack. Not many people talked to him anyway.

"He was a strange boy. So quiet, all the time. Sometimes, I, heh, forgot he was there. Always quiet. Had raven black hair. What's raven? Don't matter. Black hair. He had black hair. Really deep eyes. It's the eyes, those eyes, that scared me the most. Yeah, scared. A dark green. Weirdest colour. When I looked into those little boy eyes, I got scared. You would be too. There was purpose in those eyes. When he was getting as high as my waist, he starting talking about scary things. He would look people in the eyes, and tell them that he knew the Truth. No one knew what he was saying, and he never cared to explain, just went back into himself. People would tell me later that he scared them, and a lot of people didn't want to see me because of him. That scared me, more then a mysterious little boy could. When he started acting strange, that's when I had to be afraid. Snuck away every night. I could guess what he did, from rumors I heard in the morning.

"Did the strangest things. Broke into people's houses, and just stared at them sleeping for hours until they woke up. Never stole anything. Just played hide-and-go-seek in their houses. I even heard that he started giving sermons to people while they were trying to find him. Before people found out that he did what he did, they said that there were shadows talking to them. Never stayed anywhere long once that happened. Got attacked once, in the morning, by someone so angry an the kid. Got to say, he didn't get far. He was mad mad mad, and looked big enough to take out any Super Mutant with his fists, and he was aiming to take it out on me. The boy slipped out from behind a wall when the townsman was almost at me, and slit his throat clean. Never seen anyone so short kill someone so big so fast. We left that town before I could even finish a Scav deal.

Razor was quite sober now, her face long. This talk of this Marky of hers had brought up sad memories. The bar was clearing out now, and, and so far no one had said anything to you. Your barstool squeaked as you fidgeted. Hope beyond hope that this place stayed open late and cleared out totally soon. Course, Razor might be good company for a long night, as long as you kept her beer coming. You motioned for another, knowing alcohol will get her out of the sad funk. A lukewarm bottle is placed in front of her face, but she does not drink.

"I wasn't taking any chances after that. I knew that life just wouldn't work with someone like that. I didn't want to get rid of my own boy, but he wasn't a child anymore. He killed when he had to. He was a child of the Wastes, and a damn freaky one at that. I passed him off with some Tribal caravan way up north. I convinced them primitives that he was some sort of prophet. They believed me, and got them talking to him while I got ready. He seemed happy to tell them about his revelations, and they seemed awed to believe that he was some sort of messenger from whatever gods they believed in. He played the part well. Only he wasn't playing, and that's why I got out of there. I don't know what was wrong with that boy, or why he did what he did or acted how he acted. But that kid, I've thought about him so much. He was so little, but he had such purpose. I don't know why, but now, here, and now, I believe that he knew something. Might not have been anything much, but in the Wastes, there's not much to believe in. I believe in him. But I'll never see him again."

The alcohol had its final effect and Razor broke down in tears. Her head lowers to the bar and stays there, her body wracked with sobs. You know that this woman knows hardship, and you'd like to stay and comfort her. But, helping people is a great way to draw attention to yourself. You drop a stack of coins at the bar, and stand up. The old Scav is still crying silently. You truly hope that she finds her hope soon, or at least death soon enough. Cursing yourself for having to be so furtive, you steal out of the bar and into the night.

If you weren't so inebriated, you might of seen a dark shape slip into an alley. If you weren't so busy looking out for thugs on your trail, you might have seen a shadow tracking its own prey. If you had heroic perception, you might have had a chance of catching a glimpse of the mystery that had been haunting the Wasteland towns. You don't. No one does. He is the darkness that is not conquered by the light. He is the night that hides from all but who are shown the Truth.


	4. Daylight Brings New Fears

In a flowing script on a scrap of soiled paper ripped from a Boy Scout handbook was written a cryptic message: "Your life moves according to its own flow, and that course is not in line with the Truth." Normally, Jon Bishop laughed at such threats to his person, even ones so eloquent and strange as this. The particular method that the note was delivered to him, however, scared him out of his wits. It was nailed into the ceiling right above his bed. When Bishop opened his eyes to the morning, his waking brain just could not remember whether that lighter spot had been above him before, and his bleary eyes had trouble seeing exactly what it was. Once he decided to sit up and get a closer look, he found that he still could not decipher its significance; although he was sure, it had not been there the night before. Only, when he balanced himself carefully on the headboard and stretched up to take it down and read it, did he become, as said before, scared out of his wits.

As soon as he had the building searched and a reinforced guard tightly around him did Bishop stop to consider the nagging questions. "How could someone get so close without alerting me? Why the hell would someone leave me a note with such terrible exactness and difficulty and not kill me? Who, and why?" A few minutes later he singled out the guard most responsible for watching him, a long-time, trusted member of his gang family, and killed him with a single .44 to the head. Bishop cursed the entire guard force for allowing anyone near him, but the thought screamed in his head that the invader was freakishly stealthy enough to install a note above his head while he slept. The guard force was not responsible. Bishop was smart enough to realize this. Of course, there was an image to maintain. Always.

Bishop was also smart enough to remember the dark man he had commissioned to kill Westin only a week ago, chosen for his freakish gift of stealth.

Right now, this dark man was only pondering why Jon hadn't cared enough to put a contingent of guards around his wife and daughter. Only made it easier this way.


End file.
